On the Edge of the War Zone eBook

I made two efforts to get a permission to go to Voulangis.
It is only five miles away. I wrote to the commander
of the 5th Army Corps twice. I got no answer.
Then I was told that I could not hope to reach him
with a personal letter—­that I must communicate
with him through the civil authorities. I made
a desperate effort. I decided to dare the regulations
and appeal to the commander of the gendarmes at Esbly.

There I had a queer interview—­at first
very discreet and very misleading, so far as they
were concerned. In the end, however, I had the
pleasure of seeing my two letters to Monsieur le General
attached to a long sheet of paper, full of writing,—­my
dossier, they called it. They did not deign to
tell me why my letters, sent to the army headquarters,
had been filed at the gendarmerie. I suppose that
was none of my business. Nor did they let me
see what was written on the long sheet to which the
letters were attached. Finally, they did stoop
to tell me that a gendarme had been to the mairie regarding
my case, and that if I would present myself at Quincy
the next morning, I would find a petition covering
my demand awaiting my signature. It will be too
late to serve the purpose for which it was asked, but
I’ll take it for Paris, if I can get it.

For lack of other company I invited Khaki to breakfast
with me today. He didn’t promise formally
to come—­but he was there. By devoting
myself to him he behaved very well indeed, and did
not disturb the table decorations. Luckily, they
were not good to eat. He sat in a chair beside
me, and now and then I had to pardon him for putting
his elbow on the table. I did that the more graciously
as I was surprised that he did not sit on it.
He had his own fork, and except that, now and then,
he got impatient and reached out a white paw to take
a bit of chicken from my fork just before it reached
my mouth, he committed no grave breach of table manners.
He did refuse to keep his bib on, and he ate more
than I did, and enjoyed the meal better. In fact,
I should not have enjoyed it at all but for him.
He had a gorgeous time.

I did not invite Garibaldi. He did not know anything
about it. He is too young to enjoy a “function.”
He played in the garden during the meal, happy and
content to have a huge breakfast of bread and gravy;
he is a bread eater—­thoroughly French.

I even went so far as to dress for Khaki, and put
a Christmas rose in my hair. Alas! It was
all wasted on him.

This is all the news I have to send you, and I cannot
even send a hopeful message for 1916. The end
looks farther off for me than it did at the beginning
of the year. It seems to me that the world is
only now beginning to realize what it is up against.

XX

January 23, 1916

Well, I have really been to Paris, and it was so difficult
that I ask myself why I troubled.